The Tub Incident
by Fenkai
Summary: Sherlock has lost something. Oh dear.


This piece of derivative fiction is based upon the "Sherlock" universe, for which the copyright is held by the the BBC Wales, Hartswood Films & WGBH.

**The Tub Incident  
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_by Fenkai_

"John."

The sudden and completely unexpected sound of a voice intruding into his doze caused John Watson, qualified doctor and ex-army medic, to start with embarrassing force from his languid position in the bath. He paused to gasp a ragged breath before clumsily proceeding with being caught utterly unawares. His flailing movements were so violent that half the tub's contents sloshed up and over the edge, the water managing to drench the bottom third of Sherlock's neat suit pants from where he was standing on the other side of the small bathroom, one hand still resting on the edge of the open door.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!" John pulled his knees up to his chest instinctively, trying to cover as much skin as possible, eyes blinking in the bright light. "I'm in the bloody bath!"

Sherlock disregarded the exclamation, apparently finding it redundant and not worthy of comment, choosing instead to continue staring intently down into John's face from his substantial height.

"John, have you seen my glass?"

John was still try to get his brain past the glaring fact that Sherlock had just burst into the bathroom without knocking and without an apology. In fact, without a scrap of culpability about his person at all. The opaque question didn't even register.

"What? I'm – Sorry, _what?_"

"My glass, my Eschenbach. It's missing."

"Your – Sherlock, I'm in the _bath!_ I'm _naked!_"

Sherlock blinked.

"John, that fact's currently irrelevant and hardly needs stating, least of all so aggressively. Being squeamish about disclosing a view of a body that half the people on the planet, myself included, are in possession of, is ridiculous. The real issue at hand here, is that my glass is missing. It's important, so I need you to think. _Think_ John, when was the last time you saw it?"

Sherlock had said this all within the parameters of a single breath and John had to pause for the influx of words to sink in and become of some actual use to him. Right. Sherlock was asking yet another inane question for reasons seemingly unknown. Right. Nothing out of the ordinary, then. He took a breath and told his patience to buck up; this looked like it was going to be a bit of a doozy.

"Sherlock, I didn't know you _had_ a particular glass. I thought we were just sharing –"

"No, no, no!" Sherlock turned his gaze away sharply in irritation, huffing loudly. "My magnifier, my Eschenbach 1711 designo folding magnifier. It's _missing_, and I never lose anything, so I'm asking you: when did you last see it?"

John had the niggling feeling this line of questioning could prove to be somewhat extensive. Extensive enough that he'd definitely want to have at least a towel around his waist for the remainder of it.

"Right. Sherlock, let me get out of the bath and I'll have a think."

Sherlock nodded briskly and remained standing by the door, waiting expectantly.

"What? No, get out! I'll meet you in the living room!"

Looking affronted, eyes widened comically, Sherlock muttered something that sounded like a clipped, "Fine, then", before he turned, closing the door softly behind himself.

Shaking his head with exasperation, an emotion that he had come to be rather well acquainted with of late, John stood up and pulled his threadbare towel off the rack. Wrapping it around himself, he couldn't help but mourn the lost of what had been promising to be a peaceful and wholly uneventful evening. Such things were a precious rarity in the presence of Sherlock Holmes.

Stepping out onto the bathmat, John chose to forgo dressing for expedience, grabbing another towel before walking out into the living room. He found Sherlock sitting cross-legged in the black leather armchair, long-fingered hands pressed together under his chin. The soft lamplight, the only light source in the curtain-drawn flat aside from the fire flickering in the hearth, made the angular face twice as outlandish with the additional shadows. John felt the whole atmosphere was absurdly overwrought for a misplaced, £20 piece of plastic and glass. Not that he'd be voicing that particular opinion any time soon. Not with Sherlock in enough of a state to be sitting cross-legged.

He dropped untidily into his own chair and bent over to place his head between his knees in order to dry his wet hair. Angled himself towards the heat radiating from the fire.

"So," he said, voice muffled by rigorous towel rubbing. "Your magnifying glass. When did you last remember having it?"

He heard the answering sigh, imagined the elaborate eyelash flutter that would accompany it.

"I know _exactly_ when I had it last. Yesterday, twenty past two in the afternoon, making use of it over at King's Cross, after which I returned it to my inner suit jacket pocket, its habitual resting place. When I reached into the pocket this morning, the glass was missing."

John heard a muted squeak of leather – Sherlock turning to face him.

"_I'm_ not the unknown here, John. I've ruled myself out as having any influence over its disappearance. I asked _you_ when and where you remembered last seeing it."

John looked up at that, halting the towel movements. Sherlock was looking at him with his _my-word-is-law_ face. That face could really tick John off at the best of times.

"Sherlock, I haven't touch your glass. I'm out here trying to _help_ you after being barged in on while _in the bath_, and you're treating me to an impromptu rendition of the Spanish Inquisition! I didn't take it, for Christ's sake, why would I take it?"

"I didn't say you _took_ it, I merely asked – "

"I know what you asked, and I know what you're implying: that _I've_ move it. Or, or...touched your suit or something. Which, quite frankly, is bordering on paranoia – "

"It is a logical conclusion, John! When all other possibilities have been ruled out, whatever remains – "

John didn't get to hear the end of the oft produced and paraded statement of elimination that Sherlock was so fond of, as the opening of the living room door brought about the abrupt halt of words. Both sets of eyes flickered in the direction of the open door. Mrs Hudson, ostrich feather duster in hand, was standing in the doorway.

"Is everything alright, you two? I was just dusting the frames on the landing, you know how bad they can get if they're not seen to regularly, and I couldn't help but overhear – "

The well-meaning chatter cut off as the landlady caught sight of the scene before her.

The two men were both leaning out of their chairs towards each other, faces slightly flushed from their heated words, expressions mirror images of surprise as they stared back at the interruption that was taking the form of Mrs Hudson. One was piled into an armchair that really didn't look built to contain such long limbs folded into so confined a capacity, while the other was still clad in naught but a navy towel that, unbeknownst to its wearer, was now revealing a fair chunk of pale thigh.

"Oh, my. I'm sorry, dears. I didn't realise – Well, that you were – Ah! You see, I just heard that you were in and I thought I'd pop by and drop off this little thing I found on the stairs. I though it might be yours, Sherlock?"

In the hand not currently occupied by the long-feathered duster, Mrs Hudson gently waved a matchbox-sized piece of rectangular plastic, the mixture of lamp and firelight which fell on it being muted by its matt black finish.

Sherlock leapt from the chair and was across the red carpet rug in seconds, face a mask of joy.

"Mrs Hudson, you are a marvel! On the stairs you say? Why, I admit that I didn't consider the possibility that it could have fallen unaided from an inner, buttoned pocket, but I must concede my thanks nonetheless!"

Mrs Hudson's glance filtered away somewhat sheepishly.

"Well, Sherlock, when I say the _stairs_..."

But John had already tuned out, brain currently paralysed with the mortification of being witnessed by both his flatmate and landlady in nothing but a scrap of woven cotton, each within minutes of each other. Not to mention the bath incident. He wasn't prudish, but every man had a limit, and his had probably been back in the tub.

Life with Sherlock Holmes was hardly ever uneventful and almost never peaceful, but John was finding that the intense mood swings, the constant washover of intelligence and logic, and just plain old, darned _excitement_, whilst giving him mental whiplash, was by far outweighing the negatives. Tub incident and all.


End file.
